For the past four months, I’ve been in a weird limbo state. I left my job in February 2026 to focus fully on funding applications for a Master’s degree in the U.S. (the course starts in September 2026). Prior to leaving the job, I had secured $86,000 dollars for the course, but I was still down $34,000. There was no way I could make $34,00 in the space of 6 months working at my job, so it made sense to quit (or at least drop down to part-time so I could work on funding applications). Sounds simple, right?
WRONG. Nothing is ever simple.
I find quitting really hard. I think most women do. Even if I know it’s time to move on, even if I’ve planned to leave, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m letting someone down. It’s strange because I’ve spoken to men about this, and while they feel remorse, they don’t seem to carry the same acute anxiety around it that we do.
Anyway, I had originally taken this job because it was a maternity cover. I thought I’d found the perfect antidote to my inability to quit: my contract would literally come to a natural end in December 2025, my predecessor would return, and I would be free to move on (apply to funding).
Of course, that’s not how it happened. December arrived, and they asked me to stay on for another month. What was one more month? An additional month of a full-time salary in an amazing job. I told myself I could focus on the applications in February. It wouldn’t cost me much time, and it would give me the space to do a proper handover with the returning Head of Marketing.
But January came and went, and suddenly we were in February. By this stage, I had tied up everything and was trying to carve out little pockets of time to work on my funding applications. Deadlines were looming, visas needed sorting, and the stress was starting to mount. But it was also getting harder to leave because I’d stayed so long (I’d had about three ‘leaving’ dos) that each goodbye, each ‘final’ meeting, felt falser and falser.
I finally gave myself a hard deadline of mid-February. I needed to be out.
And that’s exactly when the offer came. Do you want to work part-time? On paper, it was the perfect job: doing my exact role, but just one day a week. I could work remotely, choose my own day, and set my own terms.
It was so tempting. I knew from experience that I would worry about money the second I stopped working, so one day a week seemed incredibly manageable. It would give structure to my week, provide a small financial buffer to dampen my anxiety, and keep me sane while I tackled the funding mountain.
But deep down, I knew the reality wouldn’t match the pitch.
Firstly, in my heart of hearts I knew that the job couldn’t actually be done in a single day - or at least, not the way I wanted to do it. As a chronic over worker, I knew I’d spend the first two months burning energy just trying to reestablish boundaries and accept my own limitations, which I hate doing. Plus, I didn’t actually want to work remotely. So much of what I loved about the role was being on campus, meeting colleagues for coffee, and managing my team in person. Stripping that away meant reducing the job to a series of online meetings and remote management, which is a whole different beast. To top it off, the organisation was entering a massive, exciting phase of change. They needed strong, consistent leadership, and knowing I was leaving in September meant I would always have one foot out the door. (ALSO…I’d have to quit AGAIN).
Looking deeper, I realised this was a pattern. I always choose the sensible road - the financially stable option, the CV-booster, the practical path - even though I am deeply committed to building my life as a creative. Staying on for that one day a week was just another safety net.
But what if, for once, I bet on myself? What if I fully committed to applying for funding without an income, believing that something good would come of it?
When I actually did the math, the illusion of the safety net fell apart. Working one day a week for six months would get me a maximum of £6,000. While that would make my daily living easier and protect my savings, it wasn’t going to fill the massive £26,000 gap I needed for my Master’s. Meanwhile, some of the scholarships I was looking at were worth £15,000. I realised that if I treated the application process like a full-time job and actually trusted myself to win them, I could make far more than the part-time gig could ever offer. I just had to believe I could do it.
Now, let me be totally honest with you. The only reason I’m writing this article right now is because I’ve just been awarded a £15,000 scholarship. It feels amazing, and it makes the last three months feel justified, proving that completely quitting was the right decision.
But if you had asked me a week ago - before the email arrived - I would have told you I’d made a massive mistake. I was eating into my savings, nothing was coming from the applications, and I was full of regret that I hadn’t just taken the safe £6,000.
My point is this: I really do believe you should bet on yourself, but you need to know that the choice is always riddled with doubt. That agonising uncertainty doesn’t mean you made the wrong call; it’s just part of the price of admission. You have to learn to live with it.
If you can’t, that’s okay too. Stay in the job, keep the security, because you’ll be a lot happier.
But maybe…just maybe… if you can learn to sit with the panic, to hold your breath through the quiet weeks when nothing is happening, you might just find that uncertainty holds a much higher return on investment (and happiness) than a safety net ever could.